


empty bottles make the best vases

by anastacialee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Soulmates, i jumped on the soulmates tattoos bandwagons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anastacialee/pseuds/anastacialee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan's been waiting almost two years to meet his soulmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	empty bottles make the best vases

Jehan had been waiting, for so long, to meet the person who said those words written beautifully along his forearm for two reasons: so he could punch them in the face, and so that he could meet his soulmate. He’d had the tattoo for almost two years, as everybody got theirs when they turned eighteen, and he loved it and he loathed it. The tattoo showed him that he was destined for love (even if he had a few family members who told him that nobody would ever fall in love with a political activist poet), but the tattoo literally said that his poetry sucks. He’d written down the first words that everyone had said to him, but he didn’t even start writing poetry until he turned eighteen, so he _knew_ that it was anybody he’d known before he turned eighteen.

He was hoping to meet his soulmate, and soon, because he was already so far gone in love with a person he’d never met. And he _really_ wanted to punch them in the face.

He was doing a poetry reading before the meeting, and at the last meeting he’d invited _everyone_ , even Enjolras (who promised that he would come and Enjolras doesn’t break promises because “I’m not here to fuck anyone over, that’s what our current government is doing.”) and he’d heard that Grantaire was coming. He and Grantaire had never said a word to each other, he’d never heard Grantaire even speak. But he was coming.

Enjolras had even pushed the meeting time back so that everyone could attend Jehan’s reading and head over to the Musain together. He was nervous, unbraiding and rebraiding his hair as he was perched on a barstool, chewing on his lip. He’d never done any readings in front of any of his friends, except Courfeyrac, who was honestly the best friend a person can have. He kept glancing at the clock and sipping his tea, waiting for 6:30 to roll around so he could step on that stage (hopefully without Bossuet’s luck, he didn’t want to break an ankle getting on the tiny stage that was set up), so he could see if he could meet his soulmate before the meeting. At 6:25, they asked if he was ready, because he could go on early. He nodded, put his tea down and stood. Courfeyrac grinned at him and he walked to the stage, completely stoic, only looking down at his feet when he was stepping onto the stage – honestly, Bossuet should follow that little example he set, because Bossuet _always_ tripped going up stairs – and stood behind the microphone shyly, before smiling at his friends.

He memorized his poem, of course, he wrote the damn thing, and even if it sucked (like his soulmate would tell him), he could still be a little impressive.

The reading didn’t take long, of course. He only recited two of his poems, before he smiled at his friends again and stepped off the stage. Courfeyrac jumped up, hugged him, and began a conversation about how _fantastic_ Jehan was and how _goddamn motherfucking proud of you, kid_ he was and Jehan just beamed and excused himself for another cup of tea. He looked at the group while waiting – they were all talking, _about him and how good he was,_ except Grantaire – when Enjolras exchanged a look with Combeferre and Courfeyrac (Jehan was so jealous of Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac and Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta. They were lucky enough for not just one person to fit them so perfectly, to complete them, but two. Two people that would love and cherish them for the rest of their lives.) Enjolras cleared his throat and said, “If we go now, we can start the meeting on time.” He then walked to Jehan, put a hand on his shoulder, and said “you did well. I’m proud of you.” Before Combeferre walked up, smiled, and walked him out of the building. Courfeyrac hugged him again and followed his boyfriends out of the building.

Most of his friends smiled at him and took their leave, and he finished his cup of tea before grabbing his bag and paying for his tea and leaving. Grantaire brushed past him, calling out for Feuilly and Bahorel to wait up before turning to Jehan and saying, “I’m sorry, but your poetry is _atrocious.”_  Jehan stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide before he glared.

“Yeah? Well fuck you too.” Grantaire smirked and waved slightly, before turning around and running to catch up with the pair who had stopped to wait for him. Jehan stood there, in front of the coffee shop that he’d just done his reading in, and tried to collect himself before going to the meeting. In the end, he texted Courfeyrac and told him that he still had some nerves from doing the reading, and to send his apologies to Enjolras because he was going to go settle himself with a cup of tea and a book instead.

Courfeyrac swings by that night, all ecstatic from the meeting, before looking at Jehan. “This isn’t nerves, sunshine,” he said, taking a seat next to Jehan. Jehan shrugged.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Courfeyrac took Jehan’s hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jehan shook his head. Courfeyrac wouldn’t press the issue. Courfeyrac would text his boyfriends, tell them that he’s staying with Jehan, and wrap the younger man up in a blanket and deposit kisses to his forehead and braid his hair. Courfeyrac was good like that. But Jehan didn’t want to disturb what would surely be mind-blowing sex that night, considering how ecstatic Courfeyrac had been when he’d come in.

“I’m fine, Courfeyrac. You don’t need to stay tonight, if you don’t want.” Courfeyrac chewed on his lip, but stood.

“Just, text me or call me if you need anything. I don’t care what it is. I don’t want you sad, love.” Jehan nodded, allowed Courfeyrac to kiss his forehead, and Courfeyrac left, throwing only one glance over his shoulder at Jehan. The minute the door closed behind him, Jehan slumped against the couch and dug his fingernails into his palm so he could at least put up a semi-valiant effort not to cry.

He would meet his soulmate.

His soulmate would laugh in his face and walk away.

His soulmate wouldn’t love him.

Of course they wouldn’t.

He dreamed for his entire life of the one person who would complete, compliment, and rectify him, and that person would metaphorically spit in his face and walk away. 

He skipped all of his lectures for the next week. He got off the couch for more tea and to use the bathroom. He slept on the couch, rolled up in his blanket. He let his phone die. He ignored when people knocked on the door, but used the chain lock because Courfeyrac had a key and he didn’t want to talk to anyone for a while.

He wanted to be alone and left to wallow in his misery. He and Grantaire were meant to be together, and Grantaire didn’t want that. A little voice in the back of his mind kept repeating _what if Grantaire’s never seen his?_ but he wanted to be melancholy, so he pushed the voice into oblivion, and ignored it whenever it decided to make its presence known again.

Jehan pushed himself to eight days of sitting on his couch and doing nothing when his window slid open. He ignored it; he was ignoring everything.

“You could have told me.” Courfeyrac’ voice floated into his ear. “You didn’t have to suffer alone, Jehan. You could have told me, or Combeferre, or Bahorel, or Feuilly, or you could have fucking told _Enjolras._ ”

“Courfeyrac, go away.”

“I thought he did it to hurt you.” Jehan shook his head. He was hallucinating, he had to be. “I punched him. I punched Grantaire in the fucking mouth. He went out drinking with Feuilly and Bahorel and me.  We talked him into showing us. It’s on his back and he never looked at it. He didn’t know what his tattoo said. I thought he was lying and Bahorel told him what it said and all he said was, ‘I think that’s what Jehan said to me.’ And I asked why and he insulted your poetry, he said it was atrocious, and I’m sorry, Jehan, I was just so fucking mad. I thought he was lying to me. But Bahorel and Feuilly heard. And they didn’t think. They’d never seen your tattoo. I’m sorry.”

Jehan stood and started walking to his bedroom.

“He’s sorry, Jehan. If he would have known...”

“I don’t want to hear it.” he slammed the door in Courfeyrac’s face for the first time during their friendship. He heard Courfeyrac sigh, and then footsteps leading away from his bedroom. He heard his living room window shut, then the chain lock being removed from its place. He heard the door hinges squeak, then the door shut before he fell back onto his bed.

He stopped paying attention. The sun came up, and then went back down, and up again and Jehan was convinced he had been hallucinating the night before because Combeferre hadn’t come to talk sense into him yet.

And then there was a knock at the door. Not the front door. His bedroom door. He frowned at it. Combeferre would knock at the front door. Whoever it was let themselves in his apartment, _his bedroom_ , just as he rolled over. He didn’t want to deal with people. He heard a sigh, and pulled his pillow over his head. Whoever decided to break into his apartment sat on his bed and gently took the pillow away from him before scooting up on the bed so that they were sitting next to where he was laying.

“I didn’t know.” Jehan tried to laugh, but the noise that came out was bitter, hollow. It didn’t sound like a noise Jehan would ever make. Of course Grantaire would come over. “If it makes you feel better, Courfeyrac busted my lip open. And he came over yesterday and broke my nose.”

“Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.” Jehan didn’t recognize his own voice. His voice had always been soft, but he’d often been mistaken for a girl because he was more feminine in appearance and his voice was not only soft, but melodic. The perfect voice for poetry, his mother had always told him. Grantaire got off his bed and Jehan almost sighed in relief at the thought of another few days of solitude, before he heard cabinets shutting and the tap running and Grantaire’s heavy footsteps back towards his room.

“I’ve known I’ve had a tattoo since the day I turned eighteen. My sister saw it; she wanted to tell me what it said. By the time I was eighteen, I’d already had it driven into my head that I was a worthless piece of trash. And at that age, and now I suppose, I never thought that I deserved someone that would love me unconditionally the way soulmates are supposed to. I always thought that I was undeserving. And I am. I’m incredibly undeserving. Who wants a soulmate that’s drunk all the time and hates himself and the world around him?” Jehan pushed himself up onto his elbows and levelled a glare at Grantaire.

“I don’t want to hear it. I’m sure that if _your_ words are on _my_ arm, you’re absolutely deserving. I’m not putting up with _your_ self-deprecating bullshit as well as my own, Grantaire. There’s a reason behind these tattoos, you and I both know that.”

“The tattoos aren’t always a good thing.” Jehan glared at him again. “If the tattoos were meant for good then—“

“Grantaire. Shut up. Make your arguments with Enjolras. I don’t want to hear it.” Jehan untangled himself from his blanket. “I am interested in why you thought you were worthless.”

“Why I _think_ I _am_ worthless,” Grantaire corrected under his breath before sighing. “My mom and dad got married, but their tattoos didn’t match up. Everyone spends so much time searching for their soulmates, and I guess my parents got fed up with that bullshit and said ‘fuck it,’ and got married to piss everyone off. They had me after a year of marriage and my sister after two. Then my mom met her soulmate at the grocery store. A man bumped into her shopping cart and said, ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am. I might have broken your eggs.’ And she said, ‘who cares about eggs anyway?’ She came home, announced that she was leaving, and two weeks later, my dad got the divorce papers. She came back once more, to get the rest of her things, and without even acknowledging my sister and I, just left.” Jehan placed his hand on top of Grantaire’s, which he had folded in his lap. “My dad said it was my fault. My sister didn’t get any of the blame, but she would have never found him, would have never met him, if mom didn’t promise me an omelette for my birthday. So, from that day forward, I was Rene Grantaire, the worthless piece of shit that didn’t deserve to be on the planet earth. Or anywhere, for that matter. I didn’t deserve life, according to him. It’s been driven in my brain since I was five.” Jehan took Grantaire’s hands in his.

“I’m sorry. I know that apologies aren’t going to help; it’s too late for that. But maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe I’m supposed to help you. Grantaire, you are deserving, and if I can tell you anything, it’s that you’re not worthless. Yes, you drink far too much. You can always wean yourself off if you feel that you ever want to. Yes, you’re cynical. But I’m optimistic. Don’t opposites attract? Yes, you’re kind of a douche, but I’m not defending you on your own behalf. I’ve walked around with a tattoo on my arm for almost two years that says that my poetry sucks. I’ve wanted to punch you for that for almost two years.”

“Jehan, your birthday was two days ago. That tattoo is two years old now. I think he wanted to make sure that you’re not dead, also.” Grantaire pulled his hands away from Jehan’s. “If you get up and take a shower, I’ll take you to grab something to eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in a few days.” Jehan nodded and scooted to the edge of his bed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t try to talk to you about it. I’ve been selfish, I suppose.”

Grantaire shrugged. “No human is without fault, Prouvaire. Now get up. When was the last time you showered?” Jehan glared at him.

“Where are we going to eat?”

 Grantaire looked down at his lap. “Courfeyrac actually suggested, since it’s a nice day and all, to take you to the park near here, have a picnic.” Jehan smiled and stood.

“That’d be nice, thank you.”

“If you want, I can put on tea while you’re in the shower.” Jehan nodded.

“Yes, please. Jasmine, if you will.” He started walking to his bathroom.

“Jehan?” He hummed and paused in the bathroom door. “I really am sorry. For everything. And that your tattoo is pretty shitty.” Jehan turned and smiled at him.

“Honestly, if you think mine is bad, ask Bahorel and Feuilly about theirs.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was an accident, i swear. i was talking about my headcanons for everyone's tattoos and almost 2,600 words slipped. huge shoutout to tumblr user anarchojolras for the title.


End file.
